Innocence is in the Details
by Micer
Summary: Just a story I've been working on about Jonathan Crane and OC. Slow on progress... please pardon the hickups on chapters...
1. Passing Thoughts

**Innocence is in the Details**

**-MAS**

"Always nice to start off the night by seeing a familiar face..." He quietly stared down at her from where she laid upon the hospital bed. Nothing more than studying her pale complexion, looking for any sign of change in those glassy green eyes from the last time he had visited, completely without a worry about any interruptions of their little reunion for now. It was a godsend that her guard had always had a disliking towards hospitals; he wouldn't be guarding much of anything for a while, not while fending off those needles that haunted his deep slumber.

Poor little Jessie, off into her own world now, she couldn't take her fears and went into complete conversion hysteria – a shame to see her shut down so soon when they would have had so much more. She had seemed so sure of herself – that nothing would betray her by leaving her scared – but it was betrayal itself that left her this way, completely alone inside her head. It was her own fault for acting like nothing would scare her – that there was not a single thing that would cause her harm. For teaching her young students back at the elementary that there was nothing to fear in the world. Her own fault for thinking he was a person to fall for.

Part of him wished there was a way to get inside of there once more, to drag her kicking and screaming back out into this world for another go, just for old times sake. Just to watch those eyes widen with terror and fill with tears, a shake pass over her body he knew so well thanks to her – that warm friendly voice becoming thin and stressed as she tried her reasoning, her fighting back all over again. Pure beauty, that kind of fear. A grin broke out from behind the stitched sackcloth mask; still he had to admit she was still a pretty thing, even when broken beyond repair. Leaning in close enough that the coarse material would scratch against her face he gently spoke to her, developing the stutter she had heard ever since making his acquaintance a month or so before. "Jessie, are you all r-right – it's Mr. Mather, your neighbor. Y-you know; Issiac, from f-forty-four. Are you in there Jessie? Please t-talk to me, I miss you so..."

But there was nothing, he noted with a disappointed sigh, not even so much as a misplaced breath, a movement of the eyes; nothing at all. She already knew with one or the other it was all the same to her mind now – her neighbor was the Scarecrow, and he had betrayed her by attacking her, leaving her to the point of this. That card was played out, perhaps in a few days it would be time to try another hand... one with a small dosage of the same gas he used to terrorize the rest of his test subjects that lived in the apartment complex. Certainly there was a chance that it would snap her out of her revelries – if not outright kill her considering how fragile she seemed now – still one way or another the results would prove fruitful. "Sweet d-dreams my dear..." he murmured, touching the top of her head with his sewn smile, a mocking parody of a caring gesture. "I wish I could stay longer of course, but you know how it is in this city – always have to keep busy!"


	2. Visiting Hours

...

I hate him.

At one point I used to love that man - Issiac Mather, the one supposedly sitting by my bed this very moment.

To say I can truly know it is him, would be a lie... I haven't opened my eyes in a while now, a while pertaining to the fact that I don't exactly know how long I've been under, but I am aware. And I'm still sane enough to know that the man, who's breath is warming my cheek this very moment that I'm lying here thinking to myself, is dead - though truthfully, he never existed to begin with.

Truth.

What a simply wonderful concept.

Yet harder to understand perhaps than the idea that this man is not the man I know, Issiac Mathers being actually Jonathan Crane, Jonathan Crane actually being the man the monster hides behind, his Scarecrow. And in all this confusion, all the trouble concerning truth and lies, I'm left here. With this creature that dares to call itself human, my attacker and my jailer. And one way or another - I hate him - and that is what keeps me alive.

No lies.

No fear... though the arguement there presents that you have to fear something to truly hate it... but it's too late to wax on such subjects... is it too late?

Maybe, Issiac... I mean, Jonathan... doesn't seem to like the normal visiting hours of the hospital during the day...

Although my head has been knocked in so badly from the fall I wouldn't be surprised if I was even making sense at the moment, philosophy and head trama don't seem to mix too cleanly, granted.

You wonder how anyone could have wound up like this - don't you? Its what I've been asking myself since - since - god I can't even remember if it has been only days or weeks or even months.

Did I cover this before? I suppose maybe I did...

Never seems like it would ever happen to you, right? I was what anyone would of considered a nice person, I taught a class at an elementary school for five years on the East Side, was the superintendant for the appartment building on the side, helped all my neighbors, generally I was very happy with how I lived.

Granted I was lonely, even with those in the community I wanted to be with someone - who doesn't?

We're naturally very social animals as any sociologist can tell you... well, the majority at least.

And now - now all of that is gone. Even if I was to come out now of this now, if I knew exactly how - I have nothing left to wake up to - and than he would kill me. Because of _him_, all of what was my life is gone forever. Because of him - I'm trapped in my own skull, having to pretend I'm gone - otherwise I would be dead by now.

Would be dead...

I was dead. Wasn't I?

Falling from a roof, landing onto something metal, like say the edge of a dumpster with your head does that to a person, right?

Someone on staff once mentioned CPR in passing, but I don't quite think Jonathan here would be the type to help a girl when she's down and out for the count. So otherwise I can't tell if I either annoy or amuse him because of this loose end, but whatever that it might be - he still comes here.

Loyal or determined - I can't tell, and part of me doesn't wish to know.

Not because I'm scared.

Only because I honestly don't want to know.

Despite no outward change in my condition - he still comes when the skeleton crew is finished making their rounds and the ward is quiet. He visits once in a while to check on me, like a fox at a rabbit's hole. A proud child gloating over the bird with broken wings struck down with a stone. Mostly in plain clothes I guess, he had a knack for blending in I've noticed, somehow he sneaks past the man supposedly guarding the floor - other times as a blatant slap in the face as that - _Scarecrow.._. well, no, I haven't seen him lately with my eyes being closed and all again, so I suppose all he's been doing is placing a bit of sackcloth by my cheek.

Since no one could actually be that confident not to be caught...

Could they?

Who knows with this city...

Still, it takes all of my will not to twitch, to focus on beyond the blackness, to hide when he stares down at me with that patient gaze, every slow breath devoted to keeping tears from the corners of my eyes and a scream in my throat when he gets so close to me.

The truth can set you free, they say.

And the truth being that I want to die - but I know I won't. Not until I know Crane is dead as well.

In this moment I'll remain silent, harmless little Jessie.

Merely waiting - waiting and remembering - for its all I can do now.


	3. Relocation Study

You know in this day and age when the time comes to know thy neighbor, no one really seems up for that task anymore. The autonomy of living next door to some stranger, or having some new stranger move in to replace the old stranger you had finally accepted into your realm of existence makes it simple to forget that obligation.

Is this new person going to be the first to hesitant introductions? Or will they merely mirror the paranoid glances one might cast as they reach their doors at the opportune moment that you decide to exit. Looks that speak volumes over the fears that this stranger across from you is a relocated pervert, an ax murderer, or devout Jehovah witness, or a low life thieving member of the dregs of society. Despite how well they might dress, how quickly the thoughts pass as the low hello or acknowledging noise one might make for the sake of decorum is made.

These are people, otherwise faceless entities to pay the rent and fill the building, creatures you have no need of knowing – and yet you do against your will, its natural for us to seek safety in numbers – regardless of the trust we might not wish to place towards these strangers. No matter what you might try to ignore the life that may be occurring around you – the happy couple downstairs will always bicker when the money becomes tight, various children will fight with their various parents over various inane subjects. It's in the vents echoing to your ears in the night, seeps up from the floorboards, it's muffled through the doors as you walk the hallways, it's screaming at you from the windows, these faceless voices.

Do I know them? Have we perhaps crossed paths before? I wonder many times looking at the young faces of adults glancing my way if these wastes had once traveled through my class before sinking down into the dredges of adulthood responsibilities. I wonder if they truly know me. I recognize the looks these people give - Have I seen him before somewhere? Have I heard him? Screaming in the middle of the night of some unknown night terrors, driving me mad as he ceaselessly paces across the wooden floor above my head, slamming doors erratically, speaking to himself – is this that man that I have wished ill upon at each footfall? Is this the man? Is it? _IS IT? _

Some are fortunate never to know me, though I make it my business to know you – what is it that you fear the most, I can almost tell just by looking at you. What is it you're hiding, these secret weaknesses that only you know and worry over behind locked doors. What is it I need to do to make you know me – what is it in your head that I must drag out to make you realize who the slight man – the magnificent and terrible creature standing before you is.

What is it I have to do to make you truly afraid?


	4. Room For Rent

It's a moment to realize that indeed there's something wrong with a place... the way a door might be ajar, the standing silence in a room... it's there right under your nose, and in most cases, remains unnoticed until that one slow pause of realization strikes your awareness.

The signs are there, but it's up to the person to see them.

It's up to the person, truly concerned and curious as to the reasons for the door, the unnatural quiet, to go into that room and investigate.

And it's up to that one person in the end, to react accordingly.

For that is all we can really do with what we are given.

"Marie? Oh my God – Marie are you all right? Marie? _MARIE_?"

She sank to her knees, touching the cold skin of the older woman's neck – sobbing at there was nothing under her fingertips, no promising twitch of life under the puffy wrinkled flesh. Her other hand moved of its own accord past the slacken jaw, to the wide glassy eyes that stared up beyond the ceiling, touching the lids enough to bring them back down over the dull brown iris. It was a face she couldn't bare to see, she opted to staring at the hands still clenching claw like to the telephone – the hands that were once warm, soft, a gentle scent of peach rising as they would pat your shoulder. Telling you not to work so hard lest you were liable to out run the sun. Trying to identify the small voice coming up from that object, trying to understand what had occurred, what to do.

She took the phone from those fingers, choking on that familiar scent of the hand lotion, raising it to her ear as she heard the operator pick up the noises on the other side. Asking if everything was all right, if there was something needed.... was there an emergency...

What did she need? She needed Marie to be all right. She needed this to be nothing more than a nightmare and for her to wake up sweating and shaking in bed right about now. What did she need? She looked up and stared out at the city from the moving curtains, the open window, past the fire escape to the graying brick buildings skirting the summer skies – she stared out and finally spoke in a tiny voice.

"I need an ambulance."


	5. Moving Day

The morning rain had slackened off enough to nothing but harmless drizzling, leaving the sidewalk's slick and gritty sheen shining up as the sun slid from its gray cover of clouds. Around him life was returning from their escape from the downpour, shopkeepers sweeping water into gutters, the citizens of this neighborhood no longer huddling under their umbrellas, slowing their hectic walks to a much more leisurely pace that one finds on Saturday afternoons. Music floated down from some open window, notes of what may have been jazz or blues meshing with the soft purr of passing cars and the thick rumble of delivery trucks taking wares to their respected businesses. A cry to be taken back to Birdland crushed down amongst the progress of the day.

Looking up at the brickwork building, as he exited from the van that held his few preciously acquired possessions, Jonathan couldn't help but smile to himself. Was this how an actor felt at the promise of a new production? A familiar trill he had once experienced with the first class he had ever taught, the unsure flutter, a nervous feeling waiting in the wings to sweep in and drag him off kicking and screaming into the urges of snarling phobics and paranoids.

It was a rather decent building he had to admit, taking his mind off of the clatter inside, certainly out of the way from the busy main streets, far on the outer rims of the Upper East. Certainly a step up from his last place of residence, most likely filled with decent people who lived out decent unimportant little lives - regardless of how hard they try to keep in the screams each and every morning.

Completely a pleasant looking neighborhood nestled off on a dead end street. Almost defying the awareness that there was a rampant problem with crime that screamed its existence into your face at almost every street corner. It seemed that they actually made it a point to deny such a fate, it was far too good to pass over. Bless that old girl and the library service for seniors for leading him to such a treasured find.

Clean, simple – a perfect place to set up again if any it seemed as he struggled with the first of a few awkward boxes of books and otherwise sparse personal effects from the back of the van. Clasping the cardboard box tightly up the stoop and past the door, than up the first of the three sets of stairs, their wood creaking occasionally under his feet. From behind him came the soft echoes of gossip from the other occupants of the apartment building as they stood in their doorways and in the halls, no reason to be there other than the lurking moments of weekend boredom, eyeing him with what he hoped was simple innocent curiosity.

Not that he would really stand out for those really looking, other than being tall, a touch on the thin side and painfully average in appearance, details would be glazed over after a while. He had allowed his hair to lose its darkened dyes, but kept it tamed in a conservative style. The familiar round spectacles lurked at hand's reach in his breast pocket, and today he had opted for the uncomfortable protection of contact lenses, his normally blue eyes covered by a muddy brown.

Oh the urge to rub his eyes and stifle the itching was driving him up a wall.

But he was aware of their eyes on him, more so than one would lend for comfort, and for a moment worried that someone would place his face from somewhere else.

The conversation between two women on the second landing met his ears clearly, even as he passed them and continued up the stairs, pausing long enough to gain better purchase upon the cardboard box.

"Hmm, that's the fellow moving into 44, right?"

"Looks like it. Good thing they're finally moving someone new in so soon."

"Poor thing to happen to old Mrs. Seidman."

"Heart attack wasn't it?"

"Walter thinks it was. Jess was in absolute hysterics, but she won't talk about it. The poor dear found Marie on the living room floor – probably stone dead and white as a sheet. Such a shame, whatever it was, hopefully it wasn't painful."

He couldn't help but let a low chuckle escape at hearing that last bit, covering it up with a soft cough. _Considering the look on that old biddy's face, I would think any type of pain would have been the last thing that was on her mind. _True, it had been a rushed job - thankfully the old girl had a weak enough heart. He had found that with a good dose of fear, anyone's heart could give out with the proper urging. And she had to go, that had been decided by the fourth visit he had made with her book order from the library, one good deed deserving another, honestly it had been her time to leave the mortal coil to make room for another with promise and vision.

Something like this deserved to be rushed to before anything else was to _spoil_ such pristine grounds - sometimes all one could do though was merely speed along an opening for such an opportunity.

"Poor dear. She must be.... broken.... close, weren't they?" Their chattering voices left his ears, only climbing stairs – exactly how did that old woman manage so many damned stairs anyway?

Perhaps it had been an act of mercy as well considering how much his own arms were beginning to ache – and this being the first trip up with a heavy load.

"Well – Mr. Mather, good morning." A voice at the top of the stairs quickly yanked him out of his eves dropping and mulling; "Do you need any help with that?" Looking up he quickly sighted the owner of the voice sitting upon the last stair of the third landing, waiting for him. Staring back at a rather average woman, short mousy brown hair ending with soft wisps around her face and neck, healthy enough color to her cheeks, arms resting atop her knees. Perhaps in her early thirties as she stared down at him with a pleasant enough looking smile on her face. Quickly, almost down to a knee jerk reaction her hand darted up to push a few short locks that had escaped from the loose sweep across her forehead. So this was the welcome wagon... Miss Hall, his new and only neighbor on the top floor.

He took a breath, shifting the box in his hold. "No, I'm all right, but you might want to move. I'd huh-hate to have struck down a good Sah-Samaritan on my first day." That accursed stutter met his ears, just as it had when she had shown him the apartment. At first he had considered trying to keep a better control over the small quirk, but it had managed to still creep out - perhaps as instinct - like a chameleon's will to blend in at the approach of some larger predator. She seemed to relax at hearing it however, her shoulders falling ever so slightly forward, possibly thinking he was as nervous as she appeared to be.

"It wouldn't be the first time it's happened. You'll get used to seeing folks tearing up and down the halls and stairs on a daily basis – especially with summer vacation coming up - its if they apologize for knocking into you that you should consider a rare occurrence." All of that said in almost a singular breath as she got to her feet - she certainly had a cheerful energy; that was for certain.

Perhaps it was a good thing, considering last time he had seen her it had been knee deep in a small herd of milling children. She could be as happy as she wanted, as long as it kept those little ones out of his way, the better.

Quickly she moved to open the door to number forty-four, considering his full arms – she deposited the set of copied keys atop the box, and stepped aside to let him enter his new home.

His new beginning.


	6. Welcome Wagon

Again with a polite nod after she had relinquished the keys, and told him that if he required anymore help to simply knock, Ms. Hall disappeared back into her apartment. And with that sank against the wood of her closed door, closing her eyes and held back on a small misplaced laugh as she bit down onto her fingers, trying her best not to break into tears once again. So it was just like that.... Jess considered, finally rising to her feet at the urge faded to the back, out with the old and in with the new. Marie was gone... cleaned up and placed in a box, just like her belongings and sent back to her children, none of them wanting the apartment – they had their own homes, their own families nestled in the suburban sprawls of elsewhere.

The room abandoned, but now even that was changed, soon the emptiness besides her would be filled.

Regardless if it was the same or not, it was time to move on.

_What in the hell had gotten into her? _

She had to wonder, sitting and waiting for Mr. Mather on the stairs, playing with a loose thread on her light sweaters' sleeve, acting completely like a moony little schoolgirl in retrospect. But it was how she greeted most of the new tenants, to make sure everything was in accordance to their liking, any requests of repairs to be made to her, only to deter the closeted Do-It-Yourselfer that lurked in everyone.

Perhaps she would have offered to help him unload his boxes but he had already turned her down once. He enjoyed his privacy – nothing illegal in that, considering he had told her that initial piece of information when they had spoken on the telephone, hence his interest in a room so out of place from all the others.

It couldn't be helped, the builders at one point had the wonderful – if slightly misplaced idea of making a massive studio on the top floor.

And the owner had the wonderful – if not more based on greed than creativity - to split it into two larger versions of the apartments down below.

He had voiced his approval, in those hesitant tones that reminded her so much of a new student facing an unfamiliar room of strangers, when she had first shown him the newly emptied room that still stank of the fresh paint she had applied a day or so before. Just to the landlord's orders - and with the school letting out for break and her work as the building's superintendent - many more orders would be waiting to run her ragged. There always was when the school let out – that was when the most work arrived from the landlord, as Mr. Pavili would wish to have as much maintenance completed in those few months before she would be dragged back to the classroom.

Leaving the frugal owner yet again with a poor replacement for the remainder of the year, as it always has been for the past six years or so.

But still, Issiac Mather did indeed show up to view the space - not many before him did, and it had been strange that he had called a day before the ad had been placed. Sometimes word had a habit of traveling fast, perhaps nothing more than a friend of a friend passed along the news of the vacancy - still it wasn't her place to ask. And only after hastily completing her duty as counter for the game of dutch the children were playing, did she show Mr. Mathers the room, much to her younger charges apparent and very vocal disapproval.

Yet regardless of the atmosphere that spoke of neighbors knowing neighbors - perhaps too well in a few cases of those idle busybodies on the second floor - he still signed the lease without further comment and paid for the year.

Definitely a new thing for their landlord - who had to go banging on at least three doors out of the twenty in the building at the end of every month - but most likely not something Mr. Pavili would be complaining about. He had merely smiled to Jessica after Mr. Mather had left, patted her back and said: "Where ever this fellow came from, I hope he brings more like him." Anyone who kept steady with rent was good in his book - the fact that he had paid in advance probably placed him over the Pavili's own children in importance.

Well, he was certainly different than what she was used to, and she did hope he would take her up on the offer of dinner - if she was able to work up the gall to go back outside and ask.

But he did like his privacy...

Well, she did need the leftovers.


End file.
